


"An Equitable Trade"

by Ross



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ross/pseuds/Ross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is the value of a human life?  Is one life ever worth more than another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" **An Equitable Trade"**

**By Ross**

**Chapter One**

LA County Fire Station 51's A-Shift Captain, Hank Stanley, was seated on their rec' room's leather-covered sofa with their mascot's head and the morning paper resting in his lap.

His three-man engine crew was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on their lunch—their exceedingly late lunch, considering that it was already close to three in the afternoon.

The Captain's eyes riveted upon one of the paper's front-page headlines and his bottom jaw suddenly went slack. "California going up in smoke," he read aloud, and then glanced over at his guys. "I cannot believe that there are _still_ 400 separate fires burning in this state. It's been almost two months. Drought, or no drought, you'd think we would have made _some_ headway by now."

"Nope," Chet Kelly solemnly replied. "We're just holding our own, Cap. New fires keep springing up as fast as we can get the old ones out."

Hank frowned and reluctantly returned to his reading.

* * *

Less than a minute later, the two missing members of Station 51's A-Shift crew returned from their latest run.

Roy DeSoto killed their rescue squad's idling engine and he and his partner, John Gage, pried themselves out of the parked vehicle.

* * *

Hank heard the truck doors slam and glanced up in time to watch his sweat-drenched paramedics drag themselves into the dayroom.

"What's on the menu at Chez Stoker?" Roy lightly inquired.

"Tuna pasta salad," the engineer answered.

Marco stared at the blond paramedic in amazement. "Yah mean, you guys haven't eaten yet, either?"

"We went through the hospital cafeteria line—a _couple_ a' times, actually," Roy replied.

"Yeah," John ruefully joined in. "And both times, the alarm went off before we could make it to a table with our trays."

The engine crew shot the complaining pair some insincere looks of sympathy.

"Hey! We've been pretty busy, too, yah know," Chet informed the new arrivals. "While the two of you were cruising up and down the hospital's air-conditioned corridors, we were out there—in that oppressive heat and humidity—battling one blaze after another."

It was the paramedics' turn to give the engine crew faux looks of sympathy.

John removed a tall drinking glass from one of the cupboards and began filling it from the kitchen tap. "Seventeen more hours, and _I'm_ gonna be on my way to someplace cool and dry."

"Cool _and_ dry?" Lopez wistfully repeated. "I'd sure like to be someplace cool and dry."

"Me, too," Stoker admitted. "I haven't been cool and dry in months!" the engineer regrettably realized, and swiped the ever-present perspiration from his forehead.

"It would be nice," Kelly concurred, "to escape this heat and humidity for a few days."

"Not to mention all the brushfires and freaky electrical storms," DeSoto quickly contributed.

"You're all welcome to join me," Gage assured his shiftmates, once he'd downed the glass' cool contents. "That mountain cabin has plenty of bunks. You just gotta BYOSB."

"Bring your own sleeping bags," his partner translated, upon seeing the lost looks on their fellow firefighters' faces.

"Now, hold on a minute!" their Captain insincerely ordered. "You can't _all_ just take off and head for the hills. _Somebody_ has to stick around here and help me save California from going up in smoke," he lightly added and pointed to the article of 'gloom and doom'.

"Relax, Cap," Chet urged, sounding equally sarcastic. "When the whole state catches on fire, Roy claims that THEY say a big earthquake's gonna come along and put it out—by dropping it into the ocean."

His crewmates grinned and exchanged a group eye roll.

Hank heard Henry whine and his newspaper rattle and redirected his gaze to their no-longer-motionless mascot.

The dog dropped onto the floor and went trotting off into the kitchen.

All eyes in the rec' room watched, in bewilderment, as the still-whimpering pooch bypassed his food and water bowls—and the doorway to the alley.

The now howling hound chose, instead, to crawl under their kitchen table.

Gage set his drained water glass down on the counter and then bent over to address the strangely behaving Basset Hound. "What's the matter, kid?"

Almost as if in reply to the paramedic's question, a thunderous roar sounded from somewhere off in the distance. The loud rumbling sound increased steadily in volume and was instantly upon them.

The terrifying sound arrived with a jolt that rocked both the single-story brick building and its inhabitants. It felt like an eighteen-wheeler had just slammed into the side of their fire station.

Following the initial strong 'jolt', the floor beneath the firemen's feet began to 'shake rattle and roll'.

The window blinds began to bounce and sway and dishes started clattering in the cupboards.

Gage's water glass toppled off of the kitchen counter and shattered into a dozen different pieces.

The ceiling lights dimmed once or twice, but remained on.

Hank sat there in his 'rocking' chair and watched helplessly as his crew flailed their arms wildly about, in a desperate attempt to maintain their equilibrium.

It almost looked like they were surfing.

The side-to-side shaking motion continued for a full fifteen seconds and then quit—just as suddenly as it had begun.

"One thing for sure," Chet determined, following a gulp of relief, "Whoever THEY are, THEY have a _wicked_ sense of humor."

Their Captain shot up off his no-longer-rocking sofa cushion and went dashing into the kitchen. "Is everybody all right?…Sheesh! For a while, there, it sort a' looked like you were surfing," he confessed, following five reassuring nods.

"It sort a' felt like we were surfing," DeSoto had to admit.

"Must a' been a magnitude 5.0, or greater," Mike Stoker solemnly determined. "Wonder where the epicenter was?"

Gage grabbed a broom and a dustpan and started to sweep up the broken glass.

Kelly crouched down to their mascot's level and gave the droopy-eared dog a comforting pat on the head. "There lies Henry…the living seismograph."

Lopez stooped beside him. "I always said it would take an earthquake to get him to move."

His shiftmates snickered.

Their Captain pulled out a chair. "Quick! Let's eat! In a couple a' more minutes, the alarm is gonna go off. And it'll prob'ly keep going off—for the rest of the shift."

The famished firemen quickly—and obediently—assumed their seats at the kitchen table and began inhaling their slightly 'tossed' tuna pasta salad.

* * *

They'd managed to get one or two mouthfuls of shell macaroni, tuna, peas, onions and mayo down their hungry hatches when, just as the Captain had so direly predicted, their station's tones sounded.

The firemen shoveled one last forkful of food into their mouths. Then they shoved their chairs back and went trotting off, in the direction of their firetrucks.

" **Station 51…Assist Battalion 14 with an evacuation…1126 East Berkley Avenue…Cross-streets: 5** **th** **and General…One-one-two-six East Berkley Avenue…Ambulances responding…Time out: 15:22.** "

"Station 51. KMG-365," Captain Stanley acknowledged and passed his paramedics their copy of the call address. He replaced the call station's mic', crossed the parking bay and climbed up into Big Red's cab. "Let's go, Michael!"

"Aye, aye, Cap!" Michael released the engine's air brake. Then he flicked its lights and siren on and followed Squad 51 out of their fire station and into the street.

**TBC**

**Author's note:**

_Found some fascinating info on earthquakes whilst surfing the web:_

"Ground shaking is a term used to describe the vibration of the ground during an earthquake. Ground shaking is caused by body waves and surface waves.

As a generalization, the severity of ground shaking increases as magnitude increases and decreases as distance from the causative fault increases.

Although the physics of seismic waves is complex, ground shaking can be explained in terms of body waves: compressional, or P waves, and shear, or S waves, and also as surface waves: Rayleigh and Love waves.

P waves propagate through the Earth with a speed of about 15,000 miles per hour and are the first waves to cause vibration of a building.

S waves arrive next and cause a structure to vibrate from side to side. They are the most damaging waves, because buildings are more easily damaged from horizontal motion than from vertical motion.

The P and S waves mainly cause high-frequency vibrations; whereas, Rayleigh waves and Love waves, which arrive last, mainly cause low-frequency vibrations.

Body and surface waves cause the ground, and consequently a building, to vibrate in a complex manner.

The objective of earthquake-resistant design is to construct a building so that it can withstand the ground shaking caused by body and surface waves." ***

*** Info gleaned from the internet.


	2. Chapter 2

"An Equitable Trade"

**Chapter Two**

Six minutes later, Mike Stoker brought Big Red to an abrupt stop, directly across from 1126 East Berkley Avenue. The engineer shoved the truck's tranny into neutral and gave the bright yellow knob in the center of its dash a sharp tug.

The engine's air brakes engaged with their familiar ' _kacheee_ '.

Hank Stanley leaned forward in his leather seat and let out a low whistle.

It didn't take an architectural engineer to see why their station had been dispatched to assist Battalion 14 with the EVAC. The big, white, stuccoed building's roofline was no longer perpendicular to the horizon. The quake had rocked the four-storied apartment complex clean off of its foundation, causing the entire structure to slope—a good three feet—to the east. Egressing those four slanting floors would prove to be most difficult, indeed!

The Captain and his crew dropped to the pavement and went jogging over to the Battalion Chief's car, to receive their assignments.

* * *

Battalion 14's Chief had waved Squad 51 over and directed its occupants to set up a 'Triage Area' **out** of harm's way.

The paramedic team took note of the rattled-looking, gray-haired people that were being escorted, and outright carried, through the tilted front entrance to 1126 East Berkley and exchanged foreboding frowns.

Stress, and physical duress, could be extremely hazardous to an elderly person's health.

DeSoto obediently drove a bit further down the avenue.

* * *

The rescue truck was finally stopped—a safe distance from the scene—and its engine was quickly killed. Roy clipped their HT to his belt, and he and his buddy bailed out.

John jerked several side compartments open.

Roy grabbed the Drug box, the Bio-phone and their cardiac monitoring equipment.

His partner removed some bright yellow drop sheets and began spreading them out on the narrow strip of grass that ran between the sidewalk and the pavement.

Moments later, one of 14's guys came trotting up, carrying their barely established Triage Area's first customer: an elderly woman complaining of… _chest pains and acute shortness of breath_.

The paramedic team traded another pair of exceedingly grim glances and then promptly began assessing and treating their first **cardiac** patient.

John started setting up for an IV and an EKG. "What's it like in there?"

Their hunched over, and still a bit breathless, colleague replied with a quick question of his own. "You ever been…in an amusement park…Funhouse?"

"Yeah."

"It's like that," the beat-on-his-feet fireman observed, "only… **without** the _fun_ ," he grimly added. The rescuer finished his break and went jogging back over to where all the 'action' was .

Two more of 14's guys appeared, both of them with elderly victims in their arms.

DeSoto left their cardiac patient in his partner's capable care and began triaging the new arrivals. He noticed that his buddy kept glancing up at the crumbling apartment complex and was immediately reminded of something their Captain had once told Johnny Carson. 'You can take the rescue man out of Rescue, but you can't take the Rescue out of the rescue man.'

Roy had no regrets about recruiting the 'rescue man' for the paramedic program, and Johnny had repeatedly assured him that **he** had no regrets about _being_ recruited, because the bottom line was always about SAVING LIVES.

Though his partner had never complained about being 'stuck' in Rehab, or Triage, it was blatantly obvious that John Gage preferred assignments that allowed him to utilize both his 'paramedic' **and** his 'rescue' training.

Since their newest victims' vitals all checked out, and since their injuries were minor, it was Roy's intention to return to their cardiac patient. Before he could make it over there, however, more firefighters showed up and two more of the complex's rescued occupants were deposited onto their bright-yellow drop sheets. 'Wonder if the rest of the crew is being kept this busy?' he thought to himself.

* * *

Speaking of the rest of the crew…

The Chief had split Engine 51's crew in two.

Lopez and Kelly were sent _inside_ , to assist 14's truck crews with the evacuation.

The Captain and his Engineer were sent on a reconnaissance mission, around the _outside_ of the apartment complex.

Structural collapse was imminent. Walls simply weren't designed to support a building's weight at such an extreme angle. Whether its demise would be by gravity, or an aftershock, the structure was definitely a goner.

When the thing did come toppling down, McConike's goal was for everybody—both civilians and fire department personnel—to be standing on the **out** side, looking in.

The Chief was counting on Stanley and Stoker's astute observations to help him accomplish that goal.

* * *

Station 51's paramedics loaded their cardiac patient into the back of a waiting ambulance. The cases containing their cardiac monitoring equipment were also shoved on board.

"What's a kerfuffle?" John suddenly inquired.

His 'completely out of the blue' question caused his partner's right eyebrow to arch in confusion.

Gage motioned to the little old lady lying, propped up, on the stretcher. "She said she lost her hearing aid in the kerfuffle."

DeSoto pointed to the frenzied activity that was taking place, just up the avenue from them. "That."

His inquisitive friend, however, remained clueless.

"A kerfuffle is a _big_ _commotion_ ," Roy bemusedly informed his partner. "14's squad finally cleared their last call. They're about two minutes out. I'll try to get a ride back on the next rig that's headed this way," he announced as he climbed aboard and then added back over his shoulder, "Try not to cause any _kerfuffles_ while I'm gone."

John helped an elderly gentleman, with a badly sprained wrist, up into the ambulance. He glanced in the direction of their Triage Area's four remaining occupants, who were all just peacefully sitting there on their drop sheets, awaiting transportation to the nearest Red Cross shelter. "I can't make any guarantees," he teased right back, and flashed his friend a mischievous grin.

Roy's own broad smile vanished behind the vehicle's closing doors.

John rapped an 'all clear' and the ambulance pulled away.

The remaining paramedic gave the slanting building a lingering glance. Then he exhaled a resigned sigh and resumed his triage duties.

* * *

Blockades had been set up at both entrances to the 1100 block of East Berkley.

One of the barricades was moved aside, to allow an ambulance to exit the avenue.

Before the barricade could be replaced, a forest green Lincoln Continental blew through the opening and continued toward the incident scene at a rather high rate of speed.

The unauthorized vehicle screeched to halt behind one of the big red firetrucks that were parked in front of the apartment complex. Its driver exited and began heading for the building's front entrance.

"Let me go!" the elderly gentleman demanded, of the two policemen who immediately intercepted him. "I live here! Apartment 417!"

The officers were sympathetic, but did not release his arms.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of them sincerely said, "but civilians are **not** allowed to enter the building."

"I don't want to 'enter the building'!" the man assured them. "The woman who lives across the hall from me has a broken ankle! I just want to find her—to make sure that she's made it out of there! I **need** to know that's she's _safe_!"

The cops could tell, by the tears in the elderly gentleman's eyes, and the desperation in his voice, that he and 'the woman who lived across the hall' were more than just _neighbors_.

One of them unclipped the radio from his belt, raised it to his lips and keyed its mic', "Fire, Battalion 14, from Police, Tact' II…"

" **McConike here, go ahead Tact' II** …"

"Chief, we have a gentleman here who wants—er, **needs** to know if your crews have finished evacuating the fourth floor, yet…"

* * *

McConike turned to one of his aides. "Do we have any crews on the fourth floor?"

The fireman shook his head. "We're just finishing up on three."

McConike keyed his radio's mic', "Tact' II, this is Battalion 14…Our crews haven't reached the fourth floor, yet. Why?"

" **Tact' II here. According to this gentleman, the woman in apartment—**?"

"— **418**!" somebody in the background quickly supplied.

" **418,** " Tact' II continued, " **has** **a broken ankle…and he is concerned about her safety** …"

At the moment, McConike was 'concerned about **everybody's** safety'. The Fire Chief gasped in frustration and then keyed his mic' for a final time. "All right. We'll see what we can do. Battalion 14 out."

* * *

Speaking of keying mic's…

John heard their radio squawk to life and went trotting over to their truck.

" **Rescue 51…What is your status**?"

" **LA** ," Roy responded, " **Squad 51 is not available at this time. One half is at the hospital, on follow-up** …"

John smiled and keyed his mic', "And the other half is still on scene."

" **10-4, Rescue 51…Rescue 36, in place of Rescue 51** …"

The half of Squad 51 that was 'still on scene' replaced their truck's dash-mounted radio's mic' and then just sat there for a few moments, surveying that 'scene'.

Squad 14's paramedics had finally put in an appearance.

The new arrivals were more than a little relieved to find all but two of the building's rescued occupants sitting in the Triage Area's 'walking wounded' section, and that the vast majority of them had signed MICU 'Release from Liability' forms, waving medical treatment, entirely.

The two that had been deemed 'serious but non life threatening' were resting comfortably and their vitals remained stable.

That didn't mean that the other earthquake victims weren't hurting, though.

While their _physical_ injuries may have been **minor** , the _emotional_ trauma that had been inflicted upon them was **severe**.

It broke the paramedic's heart to see the tears in their eyes, and the fear and uncertainty in their faces. 'Oh well,' the melancholy medicine man silently reminded himself, 'CCR is a whole lot better than CPR.' John was about to go back to calming, comforting and reassuring their Triage Area's traumatized guests, when he heard somebody call his name. His head promptly swung in that somebody's direction.

"The Chief wants to see you!" one of 14's firefighters informed him.

Squad 14's guys had spread some more drop sheets out on the grass.

The messenger gently placed another of the building's rescued occupants upon one of them and then attempted to get a kink out of his back. "Oh, and, he said to bring a lifebelt."

Gage re-donned his dropped coat and helmet. Then he grabbed their Trauma box—and a lifebelt—and went racing off, in the direction of McConike's parked car.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Chief?"

"We received a report of a woman with a broken ankle. Apartment 418. Forget _that_!" McConike ordered, upon noting the paramedic's equipment case. "Just get her down and out!" He glanced around and spotted another member of 51's crew. "Kelly! Give Gage a hand! Apartment 418!"

"Right, Chief!" the pair simultaneously replied.

Before departing, the paramedic flipped their Trauma box open, snatched up an inflatable splint and stashed it into the right front pocket of his turnout coat.

* * *

The two dispatched firemen followed the long, concrete walkway up to the building's main entrance.

The front step remained on the level but, once across the threshold, the floor and walls fell sharply away, to the right. The only things still perpendicular to the horizon were four enormous chandeliers, which hung from the spacious lobby's twenty-four foot high ceiling like ornate plumb bobs.

Two guide ropes had been stretched…from the structure's front doors…across the complex's really large lobby…and then secured to the big wooden banisters at the base of a long, winding, open staircase.

The rope on the left was for traffic entering the building and the rope on the right was for traffic exiting.

Pipes had apparently ruptured, because the floor of the lobby was wet and slick. Heck, even bone dry, the steeply slanting, highly polished terrazzo floor would have been extremely treacherous to traverse.

Kelly, who was carrying a 'forcible-entry' tool, would have to be extra cautious.

Gage clipped his belt to the 'entry' guide rope and followed his companion into the 'not-so-fun' Funhouse.

The two men quickly, but carefully, sidestepped their way over to the staircase.

Firefighters were ascending the high side of the stairs—on hands and knees, and were descending the low side—on their butts, carrying, or simply assisting, the dying building's rescued occupants 'down and out'. Gravity wanted to keep them pressed snugly up against the banister rails, and the firemen were panting from the exertion of having to fight it, every single step of the way.

A fire door had been installed on the second floor landing and it was being held open. The blade of a fire axe had been wedged in beneath it, to keep it from 'self-closing'.

The pair scrambled through the slanting portal—still on all fours—and then started crawling up the high side of the enclosed stairwell to the third floor.

The two-storied, open, winding staircase had been carpeted.

This one was bare concrete, which made it much rougher on the rescuers' hands and knees.

"I'm gonna require your services…when we get out a' here," Kelly breathlessly realized.

"Why?" the paramedic anxiously wondered back.

"Why-y?...I'll tell you why…Because this is my **fourth** trip…through this… _discombobulated_ building…and because my knees feel like…they're all raw…But mostly because…I got a real bad case…a' rug burn…on my a—behind."

John's face filled with both a grimace and a grin, as the mental image of Chet's rug-burnt rear end was indelibly etched into his brain. "Just shut up…and climb."

His companion's rather pitiful-sounding request caused Kelly's unseen green eyes to sparkle, mischievously, and his mustache to twitch, twice.

* * *

Speaking of exposed rears…

Mike Stoker was about to complete his umpteenth pass along the back of the building, when something suddenly caught his eye.

Something seemed to be protruding from the structure's exposed foundation, something that hadn't been there the last time he'd walked by.

The fireman immediately crouched down for a closer look.

It was a half-inch thick hunk of plaster, about the size of a paper plate.

Mike looked down the base of the building and saw that dozens more of these plaster 'plates' were beginning to flake away from the exposed foundation's concrete wall. He tugged on the plate in front of him. What was revealed, when the flaking plaster fell away, caused Stoker's blood to run cold.

McConike's spotters had both been issued radios and had even been designated their own frequency.

The engineer raised his to his lips and keyed its mic', "Cap, you're gonna wanna see this!"

Moments later, his Captain came barreling around the northwest corner of the building.

"Those are **old** cracks," Mike quickly pointed out, once Hank had skidded to a halt. "Might even be from as far back as the Sylmar quake, in '72."

To keep the apartment complex from being condemned, some unscrupulous person, or persons, had bought off a building inspector and then made 'cosmetic' repairs—simply 'plastering over' the huge cracks in its foundation.

And, while the two of them had been watching and waiting for the appearance of fresh cracks, the old cracks had been widening and spreading…

The Captain and his Engineer exchanged looks of abject horror.

* * *

" **Battalion 14, Engine 51! We need to get everybody OUT! NO-OW! Also, advise authorities that we have discovered evidence of 'reckless endangerment' and 'criminal negligence'**!"

McConike heard the horror in his spotter's voice and keyed his radio's mic', "Copy that, Hank!"

It was time to 'cut their losses'.

The Fire Chief grimaced and then turned to his aide, "We need to **close** the building! **NOW**! Brinkman! Sound evacuation!"

The engineer nodded and went racing off in the direction of the closest fire apparatus.

* * *

Brinkman climbed up into Engine 51's cab and tugged on the dangling chain of its air horn.

' _ **BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK**_!'

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

" **An Equitable Trade"**

**Chapter Three**

Gage and Kelly had just left the fourth floor's stairwell and were about to start scrambling up the long, carpeted hallway, that would lead them to Apartment 418, when the first continuous blast from Engine 51's air-horn came wafting their way.

The panting pair exchanged anxious glances.

McConike was 'closing' the building. Which meant: they needed to _get out_ **now** —with, or without, their victim.

"Since we're already here," Kelly breathlessly reasoned, "we may as well make it 'with'."

Gage grinned. "I agree, Chester B.!"

And so the two kept right on climbing.

* * *

The air-horn's third long blast ended just as they fell against, 'the' door.

Chet reached up and tried the knob. ******

Locked.

Both men got carefully to their unsteady feet, and then struggled to _stay_ on them at such a ridiculously steep angle.

"Fire Department!" Kelly called out, all-be-it a bit breathlessly. "Is anybody in there?!"

Silence.

"Fire Department!" he called again.

More silence.

"Stand back!" he advised. "We're coming in!" Kelly pulled a hunk of nylon webbing from his coat pocket, slipped a half-hitch over the door's knob and then passed the end of the strap off to his helper. "Think she's already 'down and out'?"

Gage kept one hand on the nylon strap and the other locked onto Kelly, in an attempt to keep him on his feet. "Nobody brought any broken ankles into Triage."

Kelly whacked the inward-opening wooden portal three times—from top to bottom, with the adze tip of his halligan. ***** "Then why doesn't she answer?" He assumed a teetering batter's stance and swung at the locked portal with full force, deeply embedding its long, tapered pike tip into the tiny crack between the door and the jamb—just above the knob.

Gage shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe she _lost her hearing aid in the kerfuffle_?"

Kelly rocked the pike tip until that tiny crack became a big gap. He pulled the pike out of the jamb, flipped his forcible-entry tool around and rammed its forked claw into the gap he'd just created. "I think maybe you lost _your mind_ in the…kerfuffle."

Gage flashed him another grin.

Which went unseen, since Kelly's chest was currently pressed up against the halligan. Chet threw his considerable weight into the bar, being careful to keep his fingers outstretched. The lock gave way and the portal popped open.

Gage used the strap to keep the 'forced' door from flying into the apartment.

One of Chet's shaggy brows suddenly arched in thought. "What's a kerfuffle?" he wondered, as they started sidestepping through the opened doorway.

An elderly woman was seated on the living room floor, beside the sofa. Her broken ankle was already in a cast and they could see that she had been crying.

The old lady did **not** look happy to see them. "Why did you have to go and do that?"

The paramedic would've liked answers to about a half-dozen questions of his own, but there simply wasn't time. He shoved the inflatable splint back into his coat pocket. "Our orders are to get you 'down and out'.

"I believe you just received **new** orders. Your firemen friends out there weren't merely 'honking at passing motorists'," she added, upon noting their surprise. "I can't leave without Mister Munson," she further stated, as the taller man stooped to scoop her up into his arms.

"Where is he?"

"Behind the couch."

Her rescuers brows raised again, at that reply.

"But I'm afraid you'll never catch him," she tearfully predicted.

And the firemen finally realized she was referring to her 'pet', and not some _guy_.

At least, they hoped she was.

The relieved pair glanced at one another and came to an unspoken agreement.

John straightened back up. Well, he got as straightened up as he could in the steeply slanting living room. "Where do you keep your linens?

"In the hall closet. Why?"

Gage retrieved a bed sheet from the hall closet.

Kelly cut a two foot length of cord from the window blind.

John shook the sheet out and used it to form a tent over his end of the sofa.

Chet spooked the feline from his end and it fled into the sheet tent.

John gathered the linen up into a sort of a sack and Chet used the cord to secure it.

Just like that, and in no time flat, they had caught the cat.

The old woman's eyes teared up anew, only this time they were tears of joy. "That sure worked slick!"

"We get an awful lot a' practice," Kelly explained.

Gage set the cat down on the couch and scooped their victim up into his arms.

"How come I get the cat?" Kelly complained, snatching up the noisy satchel. (An unhappy Siamese really knows how to howl.)

"Because you look like you're about to keel over," the paramedic explained as he began sidestepping toward the apartment's exit, "and I don't want to have to carry the _both_ of you down." He took extra care not to bang the victim's broken ankle against the door's jamb.

"Lead the way," Gage urged, as Kelly caught up with them in the carpeted hallway.

Chet obligingly dropped to his butt. He set the sack in his lap and then started a controlled slide toward the stairwell.

John quickly followed suit. 'Maybe Kelly wasn't kidding?' he silently realized, as his backside began to heat up. The wincing fireman leaned further back in the off chance that his canvas coat wouldn't create quite as much friction.

* * *

Kelly took full advantage of the staircase's empty 'entry' lane. He held onto the handrail on the high side of the stairs between floors 4 and 2, and John held onto him.

This arrangement kept gravity from pressing the paramedic and their victim into the wall on the low side, speeding up their descent—considerably.

* * *

Kelly did the same with the open staircase.

Somewhere between floors 3 and 2, the dying building had begun making horrifyingly loud ' _crack'_ ing and ' _creak'_ ing sounds.

Judging by the chunks of plaster that were pelting their helmets, the lobby's ceiling was about to let go.

They were rapidly running out of time.

"One!" Kelly, who'd been counting down the floors, relievedly exclaimed as the trio finally reached the lobby. His relief was short-lived, however, as he noticed the lobby's terrazzo floor had also begun to 'spider web'.

"Lead the way," Gage breathlessly repeated. "If it supports _your_ weight…it'll probably hold ours."

Chet completely ignored John's jibe and clipped his lifebelt to the 'exit' rope. Why was he **always** letting Gage talk him into being his guinea pig?

* * *

Kelly and the cat finally reached the collapsing apartment complex's front entrance. He unclipped his belt and turned to see how far his annoying friend had progressed. He was pleased to see that Johnny only had about another 30 to 35 feet to go, and he and their victim would be home free, too.

They were gonna make it.

Suddenly, a thunderous roar sounded from somewhere off in the distance. The loud rumbling sound increased steadily in volume, drowning out Kelly's heartfelt plea. " **Noooooooo**!"

The first aftershock hit with nearly the same force as the original quake.

Chet latched onto the dying building's swaying entryway and watched in horror as the lobby's already fractured floor fell completely away. " **John-ny**!" he screamed as both his buddy and their victim dropped outta sight.

Moments later, the shaking stopped.

Kelly was about to reenter the building when somebody latched onto the collar of his turnout coat and yanked him back from the brink.

14's Captain kept right on half-pulling and half-dragging Kelly away from the crumbling structure. He didn't release his protesting prisoner until they'd reached the 'collapse distance', roughly, fifty feet, the equivalent of the building's height.

"I gotta get to him!" Chet frantically informed the fire officer.

Cranson spun his clueless captive around.

Kelly watched, in even greater horror, as the still swaying building finally lost its battle with gravity and collapsed—like a house a' cards.

* * *

"Everybody accounted for?" 51's captain breathlessly inquired, as he and his engineer came jogging up to the Incident Command Center.

"Two known casualties—so far," the aide solemnly replied. "One civilian and…one firefighter."

Stanley winced at the news and quickly surveyed the scene.

Kelly was standing in front of the debris pile. Lopez was seated on their engine's back running board, and Stoker was standing right there beside him. Thankfully, his crew was all accounted for. Which meant…

Hank turned to 14's Captain and gave him a look of sympathy and support. 51's Captain was confused to find the look mirrored in Dean Cranson's face…and the faces of the other firefighters in the area. Hank's already heavy heart skipped a few beats and his helmeted head swung in the direction of their rescue squad.

His paramedics were nowhere in sight.

The heaviness in Hank's chest increased by a hundred fold. The day that every Captain dreads had arrived. Hank had just lost one of his men.

But…which one?

Stanley directed his stunned gaze at Battalion 14's Chief.

McConike was on the radio, informing headquarters of what had just transpired. He released its 'send' button. "Gage was exiting the building with a victim when the aftershock hit. The lobby's floor and ceiling gave way. Two seconds later, the whole damn building came crashing down. I'm terribly sorry, Hank. Gage was a _good_ man."

'Tell me something I don't already know!' Stanley silently, and insubordinately, fumed. "Have the authorities been notified?"

McConike nodded.

" _They_ 'd better find the murdering bastard before **I** do!" Hank angrily declared. Then, since he couldn't get his hands on the guy responsible for Gage's 'line of duty' death, 51's captain whipped his helmet off and hurled **it** down at the pavement, instead. Stanley promptly spun on his heels and went storming off.

Mike picked up his p.o.'d C.O.'s helmet and followed him over to their engine.

* * *

"Where's Roy?!" the still-fuming fire officer demanded of Lopez.

"I just came from Rehab," Marco quietly replied, the sadness in his voice matching the look on his mustached face. "14's paramedics said that Roy had to accompany a cardiac patient to Rampart. They've requested another ambulance. So he should be making it back here any minute now."

Station 51's Captain exhaled an exasperated gasp and then 'regrouped'.

Dealing with an LOD death was an aspect of his fire officer training that Hank had hoped—and prayed—he would **never** have to draw on. He did a quick mental review and realized he'd skipped the denial and isolation stages and gone right into the anger phase—displaced aggression—to be more precise.

'Displaced…Like taking your anger out on inanimate objects, complete strangers and…your own crew.' Hank rested a hand on his lineman's slumped shoulder. "Sorry, Marco. I didn't mean to shout."

"No problem, Cap. I chewed out the guys in Rehab…and _my_ helmet bounced under the truck."

The no longer fuming fire officer gave Lopez's shoulder and appreciative pat and then directed his sorrowful gaze toward the other mustached member of his crew.

Kelly was still just standing there across the avenue from them, staring at the remains of the building that had just swallowed up their young friend.

'The _isolation_ stage,' Stanley sadly and silently surmised.

* * *

For the moment, all Chet was feeling was frustration. He desperately wanted to reach his friend. Whether Johnny was alive…or dead, he just wanted to reach him. He'd come up with the quickest way to accomplish his mission, and he was frustrated because McConike's aides wouldn't let him 'bother' the Chief until he was off the radio.

An elderly gentleman suddenly stepped up beside him and pointed to the fireman's make-shift satchel. "Is Mister Munson in there?" he sadly inquired.

"Hu-uh? Uhhh. Yeah." Kelly had been so busy planning and plotting, he'd forgotten all about the cat.

The grief-stricken guy extended his arm. "May I take him?"

"Who are you?"

"Edward Greenbough…the III. Eleanor, the woman you were sent in to save, lives…lived across the hall from me. The two of us were very…close. She would want me to take him."

"Where will you go?" Kelly inquired, keeping a tight grip on the bag.

"Home."

"I thought _this_ was your home."

"If it is true, that 'home is where your heart is'…Then I guess you are right. **This** was my _home_. I just have five other 'places in which to live'. Six, if you count the flat in Paris."

Kelly's brows arched in disbelief. But he finally, reluctantly, relinquished custody of the cat.

"Thank you. I can assure you that 'M' will be well taken care of."

That said, Chet went back to staring at the story-and-a-half high mound of rubble.

The elderly gentleman stayed and stared, right along with him. "Thank you for trying to save her."

Kelly nodded his appreciation of the guy's gratitude. "I'm…sorry for your loss."

"I am equally sorry for your loss. The other young man was clearly a close friend of yours."

Speaking of the other young man's close friends…

Chet's mustached face suddenly filled with a grimace. "Ahhh…man… _Roy_."

The incident scene suddenly grew very quiet.

McConike had finally finished shouting into his radio.

Kelly's concern for John Gage's partner was immediately put on hold. "Excuse me, Mr. Greenbough," he begged off, and went bolting over to where the Battalion Chief's car was parked.

* * *

Speaking of John Gage's partner…

The returning paramedic popped his ride's back doors open and hopped out onto the pavement. DeSoto removed their equipment cases from the back of the ambulance, as well, and then had a long look around.

The first thing Roy noticed was that the already dangerously slanting apartment complex had finally nosedived—completely—into the ground. Judging by the amount of dust that was still hanging in the air, he'd just missed seeing its collapse.

The second thing was that Triage had been turned into a Rehab Area.

The Red Cross had apparently kept its promise to return and transport the quake victims to the closest community shelter, because the bright yellow drop sheets were now occupied by his fellow firefighters.

Judging by all the IVs, cold compresses, hanging heads and sagging shoulders, the evacuators were suffering from dehydration, heat exhaustion, and over-exertion.

The third thing that came to his attention, after stowing their cardiac monitoring equipment away, was that Johnny was nowhere in sight. "Anybody seen my partner?" he inquired, of all who were within earshot.

His fellow firefighters exchanged solemn glances.

Seconds passed, but nobody said a word.

Cal' Brinkman finally raised his right arm and motioned toward the Chief's car.

The puzzled paramedic gave the engineer a grateful nod and then headed off in that direction.

* * *

An uncomfortable feeling came over Roy as his fellow firefighters refused to make eye contact with him. He spotted 51's engine crew and froze.

The look—on all four of his friends' faces—was one of profound sadness.

'No Johnny…everybody acting as though someone has just died…' Roy's lungs suddenly stopped functioning and he staggered back a step, as though he'd just been sucker punched in the gut. He had! The implications—how people were reacting to his presence, and the looks on the guys' grief-stricken faces—were truly _gut-wrenching_.

DeSoto just stood there, stunned—beyond belief.

51's Captain came forward and steered his stunned crewman over to their engine. Hank sat John's partner down on the truck's back running board and locked a supportive hand onto his sagging left shoulder.

It was a full five minutes before Roy recovered enough to speak. "Whe—" the paramedic had to clear his tightened throat, in order to complete his question. "Where…is he?"

His crewmates shifted their solemn gazes toward the enormous mound of still-settling rubble, directly across the avenue from them.

So, not only was his best friend **dead** , he was also _buried_ _beneath a thousand tons of debris_.

'Nah-ahhhh…' Roy's reeling brain could not— **would** not—wrap itself around  that gruesome scenario.

Besides, just because Johnny had been _buried_ didn't necessarily mean he'd been _crushed to death_. Hell, Chet was always calling Johnny scrawny. His partner had fit into some pretty tight spaces in the past seven years.

Hopefully, he'd found one more to fit into.

So…there was a _slim_ chance that Johnny had just been _entombed_ —and not _crushed_. His partner was just 'supposedly' _dead_. Roy's head—er, heart chose to wrap itself around  that scenario, instead.

The visible half of Squad 51 suddenly leapt to his feet and went racing over to the department's 'powers that be' "Gage could still be **alive**!" he exclaimed, giving voice to his wishful thinking.

The Chief's aides just gazed silently back at him with a mixture of sadness and sympathy in their faces.

DeSoto was, understandably, still in the early stages of grief. The first, of which, was denial.

"The department is acting under that premise," McConike assured him.

The now confused paramedic's puzzled blue eyes re-scanned the incident scene.

There was a complete absence of _any_ fire department 'activity'.

"Then, why isn't anybody _doing_ anything?"

"These crews are completely exhausted," the Chief patiently explained. "More manpower and equipment is on the way. We can't do anything until it gets here."

"What happens when it does get here?"

"Well, Kelly's come up with a pretty good plan. I think maybe _he_ should be the one to answer that. " McConike motioned for 51's lineman to take over.

"Since the shortest distance between two points is a **straight** line," Chet obligingly began, "and since it would take too long—and be too dangerous—to try to dig down to them through all that debris, we're gonna tear up the walkway and front step, and then tunnel through what's left of the basement, shoring things up along the way. Thirty, maybe thirty-five feet **straight** in, we'll find them."

As to whether the daunting task would end in a 'rescue'…or a 'retrieval'?

Well, either way, they _would_ reach them.

'Gage is awfully scrawny,' Kelly reminded himself for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes. 'And Eleanor was—is really thin, too.'

Battalion 14's Chief stepped up to Station 51's Captain. "Hank, I'm ordering you and your crew to return to quarters."

John Gage's shiftmates—and friends—exchanged mutinous glances.

"I need you guys to be well rested," McConike quickly continued, before 51's Captain and crew could voice their vehement protests, "when I send you in there tomorrow…to bring them out."

51's five remaining 'guys' gave their benevolent boss looks of undying gratitude and then reluctantly began taking their leave.

The Chief heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.

One of Stanley's men wasn't moving.

"Hank!" McConike called out.

'Hank' obligingly turned back and the stationary paramedic was promptly pointed out to him.

DeSoto was just standing there, staring at that enormous mound of rubble.

Stanley stepped up beside him. "Roy?"

Roy was trying to recall the last thing he and his partner had said to one another.

" _Try not to cause any kerfuffles while I'm gone,"_ he'd teased, following his friend's amusing inquiry.

" _I can't make any_ _guarantees_ _,"_ Johnny had joked right back.

"Ro-oy?!" the Captain repeated, and finally succeeded in getting the day-dreaming paramedic's attention. "You okay to drive?"

"Huh? Uh…Yeah…yeah," Roy numbly replied, without breaking eye contact with the four compressed floors of wood and concrete that were keeping his partner entombed. He rested his right hand on the radio that was clipped to his hip. "I just wish there was a way to let him know that we're _coming back_ …that we haven't given up on him."

"Believe me, pal…" Hank paused to pat the paramedic's chest a couple a' times, right about at the level of his hurting heart. "He _knows_."

Roy gave his Captain an appreciative nod and his partner's temporary grave one last, lingering gaze. Then he turned and started trudging toward their squad.

* * *

The remaining members of Station 51's A-Shift were halfway home* when their trucks' dash-mounted radios began to ' _ **bleep**_ _'_.

" **Squad 51…What is your status?** "

Hank and his engine crew exchanged exceedingly grim glances.

Talk about a reality check.

* * *

"LA," Roy quietly replied, without even bothering to reach for their radio's mic', "Squad 51 is…not…available…at this time." The shock was beginning to wear off, and so was the ensuing numbness. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. "One half is returning to quarters…" he paused, like he always did, to allow his partner to chime in.

" _And the other half is still on scene_."

Gage's cheery reply resonated through DeSoto's memory with such crystal clarity, that he could actually _hear_ the smile in Johnny's voice. Roy glanced to his right, half-expecting to find his lanky-legged friend seated right there, beside him.

But he wasn't.

And there were no _guarantees_ that he ever would be…again.

Roy's vision began to blur, as the emptiness of that black leather seat became unbearable. He blinked, to clear it. But it was blurring faster than he could blink. So he was forced to pull the Squad over.

* * *

Following a wordless exchange with his front-seat passenger, Mike pulled over and parked Big Red, right in back of Roy.

Hank and his engine crew just sat there, in a silent—yet visible—show of support for their grieving shiftmate.

They would need each other's support. They had just lost their brother.

Roy would require the most support of all, for he had lost, not only his brother, but his best friend.

" **Squad 51—** "

Stanley made a frantic grab for their radio's mic'. "—L.A.," he interceded, before the dispatcher's disconcerting question could be repeated, "Squad 51 is…unavailable. _At. This. Time_ ," the Captain quickly, and confidently, tacked on.

" **Copy that, 51** _ **…**_ "

**TBC**

*****

AN: A halligan is one of the most useful tools a firefighter has because it allows him to smash, poke, pry, push & pull. It's a long steel bar with several different tips on it: one end has a fork/claw, the other end has both a pike and an adze/duck-bill.

 ****** Explanation of forcible entry procedure on an inward opening wooden door with a wooden jamb: (Note: This is the way I was trained to do it in our department.)

1\. Always **try before you pry**.

2\. **Secure** /Control the door: Someone may be lying unconscious on the floor behind the door and you don't want it to go flying open when it's forced, and hit that someone in the head. So you secure it with a drained hose or nylon strap, or even another halligan.

3\. **Shock** : hit the door **hard** top center and bottom, to both weaken it and check for additional locks.

4\. **Gap** : drive the pike in between the door and the jamb, just above the knob, and then rock it to create room for the fork/claw.

5\. **Force** : Ram the fork/claw end of the halligan into the gap and then pry, by pushing the bar forward, to pop the door open. Keep your hands open-palmed on the bar, to keep from cracking your knuckles against the door, or smashing your fingers.

Hope these explanations help you to picture what is taking place and why it is being done. : )

 ******* Firefighters don't refer to their quarters as Station _houses_ for nothing. ; )


	4. Chapter 4

" **An Equitable Trade"**

**Chapter Four**

The old woman lay there, still cradled in the young fireman's arms. It was dark—pitch dark, and the air was filled with pulverized concrete and plaster dust. The fine powder burned her eyes and nostrils and irritated the lining of her lungs, resulting in a constant cough.

She was shaking. The sudden fall—coupled with the unbelievably loud sounds of the building collapsing, over and around them—had scared her about half to death. But that wasn't why she was trembling.

The young fireman _wasn't_ coughing. In fact, he was barely breathing.

And, the thought that he might be _dying_ scared the living hell out of her. She buried her face into the young man's no longer heaving from exertion chest and blinked fresh tears from her already watering eyes.

Her rescuer's fire coat smelt of wood smoke and burnt electrical wiring. There was a hint of tuna fish and onions on his breath and he was wearing the most amazing men's cologne.

"Please don't die," she pleaded, between coughs. "Please…don't leave me all alone down here."

The fireman didn't respond.

So she shut her irritated, tear-filled eyes and extended her heartfelt plea to a higher authority.

* * *

Sometime later…

The dust had settled quite a bit.

Alas, her rescuer's respiration rate had become so dangerously slow and so ridiculously shallow, the woman was convinced his death was now imminent. She hated to disturb the dying young man, but the front brim of his fire helmet was pressing, rather painfully, into her left boob. "Mister Fireman?...Mister Fireman?!" she repeated, upping the volume.

Not surprisingly, there was no response.

Her fingers fumbled blindly with the buckle on his helmet's chin strap and she finally got it to release.

There was a light ' _tink_ 'ling sound, as the fireman's helmet fell away, and his hanging head flopped, lifelessly, to one side.

The old woman was startled when, just moments later, her rescuer's chest heaved with a gasped inhalation. 'His dying breath,' she sadly surmised, and quickly scrambled out of the young fireman's arms.

But, instead of being his last breath, it turned out to be just the first of many deep breaths, the most recent of which was exhaled with an accompanying moan.

With the increased oxygen supply to his brain, awareness gradually returned to John Gage. He came to completely and coughed. He could tell by the sound of his cough that he was in an enclosed space—a very dark and very dusty enclosed space.

He reached inside his coat, pulled the penlight from his front shirt pocket and clicked it on. He was lying in a V-shaped collapse void. His back was up against one of two enormous hunks of the lobby's fractured terrazzo floor.

One of his long legs was directly in front of him and bent at the knee. The sole of his left boot was resting on the other hunk of slanted flooring.

There was a ten-inch wide slot in the bottom of his V-shaped tomb. His other leg had managed to find it.

Which meant that he was pinned, right up to his hip, between the two slanting slabs of concrete and granite.

The 'exit' rope was still attached to his lifebelt and it was holding his hips up at an unnatural and very uncomfortable angle. He somehow managed to get his belt unclipped from it.

He wrinkled his dust-encrusted nose up a few times and then reached, instinctively, for the aching left side of his stiff, sore neck. His hand hit something that caused a ' _clink_ 'ing sound. He directed the narrow beam of his penlight at the ' _clink_ 'ing object and discovered that one of the lobby's enormous, crystal chandeliers had accompanied him into the basement. The chandelier had taken a huge hunk of the lobby's ceiling with it, and that hunk of ceiling had served as a protective cover for the little V-shaped void.

One of the chandelier's shiny brass arms must have been pressing into his neck, because there was a bruise and some swelling right below—and just in front of—his left ear. Humph. That was a new one. He'd never been 'chandeliered' before.

"Are you all right?" a vaguely familiar voice suddenly inquired.

It was the woman with the broken ankle. The one they'd been sent in to get 'down and out'.

Gage took a couple of seconds to compose himself. "Yeah. I'm still a little woozy, is all." He directed his penlight in the voice's direction and exhaled an amused gasp. "Man, I cannot believe we _survived_ that! Mister Munson must've loaned us a couple of his lives. What about you? Are you okay?"

The woman could not believe her eyes and ears. In no time at all, her rescuer had gone from near death to cracking jokes. As for his question? He'd sheltered her with his own body and kept her from harm. "You saw to that."

"You _sure_ you're not hurt anywhere?"

"Well, I have a broken ankle. But that was busted before the earthquake hit and the whole damn building came down on us."

Gage flashed an unseen smile at his 'feisty' fellow captive. "How long was I out?"

"I don't know. My watch doesn't have a luminous dial. A half hour—forty-five minutes, maybe?"

"Have my firemen friends out there been honking at any more passing motorists?"

"No. Why?"

"Two short blasts tells everybody to stop working. They even reroute traffic so that there's total silence. Then, the guy on the LDP—Life Detection Probe—listens for signs of life. It's a portable, battery-powered victim locator. A sort of acoustic listening device with a super-sensitive microphone attached to the end of a long probe. The mic' is hooked up to an amplifier with an ambient noise filter and the guy monitors the sounds through a set of headphones. Voices only travel a few feet through the rubble. But tapping and banging carries a long ways. So, when we hear the 'all quiet' signal, we need to bang my helmet on one of these slabs, and keep on banging it." A nerve in his numb right leg was really beginning to kill him. He recalled that amputees often report experiencing phantom leg pains and suddenly wondered if his right leg was even still there. "Could you do me a favor?"

"If it is within my ability to do so…"

"There's a flashlight in my right coat pocket. Could you flick it on and let me know if my right leg is still attached to the rest of me?"

The old woman was taken aback by his request. But she obligingly crawled back over to her rescuer. She fished around in his pocket, removed the flashlight from his fire coat and flicked it on.

The chandelier's crystal prisms caught and refracted the light, so that the entire void lit up with a warm, soft, glittering glow that was real easy on the eyes.

"Far out!" Gage declared with a grin. "Sort a' adds a certain 'ambience' to the place, don't yah think?" He took a longer, better look around. "I wouldn't care to hold a dance in here. But, as collapse voids go, this one is downright 'roomy'."

The woman gazed in amazement at the 'transformed' young man and then reluctantly aimed the flashlight's beam down through the ten-inch slot in the bottom of their V-shaped void.

The fireman's right hip was pinned between the two slanting slabs of concrete and granite. His right leg was caught between two jagged pieces of the floor's reinforcing rods. A third piece of rebar had penetrated his right thigh, just above the knee. "The good news is, your leg is still there. The bad news is, it appears to be bleeding."

"Okay. Thanks. Now, I'm gonna need you to move as far back as you possibly can."

She did.

There was a smaller, two-foot square hunk of the fractured floor digging into his right shoulder blade. He got it dislodged and then situated it so that it would act as a wedge, to keep the slot on the bottom of the V-shaped void open…in the event of another # $! aftershock.

"You made me a seat. How considerate of you." The woman crawled over to the makeshift wedge/chair, sat down and extended her right hand. "Eleanor Johanna Rigby. I was obviously not named after the song, nor was the song named after me."

John took and shook the woman's proffered appendage. "John Roderick Gage. I, uh, don't have any Beatles' songs named after _me_ , either."

She returned the young man's grin—and flashlight. "Everybody just calls me E.J. Would you mind if I just call you J.R.?"

John replaced his penlight and then proceeded to drape his flashlight's wrist strap over one of the chandelier's shiny brass arms. "As in J.R. Ewing? The villain on 'Dallas'? Well, I guess that's better than _Junior_. When my buddy and I first started working together, he saw JR GAGE stenciled on all my gear and started calling me _Junior_." Junior noticed that his entire body was wringing with sweat and started to remove his hot, canvas coat.

E.J. stopped him. "No! Don't! You're a fireman. I don't have to tell _you_ about 'heat conduction'. This slab is going to suck the heat out of you until you and it are the same temperature." She saw the amazed look on the young man's face and quickly explained, "I have my Red Cross Advanced First-Aid Certificate, and I've taken five refresher courses, so my certification is up to date." She paused to gaze up at the source of the void's soft, soothing yellow glow. "Shouldn't we shut the light off? To conserve the batteries?"

J.R. couldn't seem to stop smiling. "I just replaced them, when I came on shift. My firemen friends out there will get here before the batteries go dead," he confidently predicted.

Speaking of going dead…

"Just a few short minutes ago, I was convinced that you were… _dying_."

"Yeah. I figure that's cuz one of the chandelier's arms must've been compressing the left vagus nerve in my neck, here…" he paused to point out the affected area. "The vagus nerve is sandwiched in between the left carotid and left subclavian arteries. It provides parasympathetic innertion to the heart and lungs, and compressing it can cause a vaso-vagal response. That's when your BP/blood pressure drops suddenly and results in unconsciousness. Compression of the vagus nerve can also cause relative bradycardia—an unnaturally slow heart rate, and slow, shallow respirations." He swiped his sweat-drenched brow with the sleeve of his canvas coat. "It, uh, also causes profuse sweating."

E.J. picked the fireman's dropped helmet up and studied it in the dim light. 'PARAMEDIC' was emblazoned between the circular white emblems' red and green half moons. 'Airway, breathing, circulation,' she grimly reminded herself. "May I borrow your bandage scissors?"

"Why?"

"Your airway is open, your breathing has returned to normal. That leaves _circulation_. We need to get that bleeding stop—"

"—You can't go down there!" J.R. quickly determined.

"Why ever not? The opening is a lot wider over the—"

"—Every pipe in this building burst! Both potable and non-potable! There's raw sewage down there!"

"I'm not afraid of a little poo."

"You **can't** go down there! What about your busted ankle? What if there's another aftershock? It's too dangerous!"

"Where, exactly, is it written that _you_ can risk  your neck to save **my** life, but _I_ can't risk  my neck to save **yours**?"

There was a bout of silence, as J.R. struggled to come up with a good answer to her good question. "It's…one of those **un** written laws!"

"In that case, I choose to **un** listen to it."

"Look, I'm fine! If it was an artery, I'd already be dead. At least wait until the next aftershock passes!" He paused to pat her seat. "I'm hoping this hunk of concrete will slip down and wedge the slot open enough for me to pull my hip and leg free."

"We can't wait any longer!"

" **Plea-ease**?" the paramedic pleaded. " **Don't** go down there!"

Two short, muffled blasts from an air-horn sounded just then and their attention was immediately redirected.

John snatched his helmet from the old woman's hands and began banging it against the slab of flooring that he was leaning up against.

* * *

Several loud banging minutes later…

E.J. saw that J.R.'s arm was getting tired and quickly snatched the helmet back. "My turn," she announced and began banging out a coded message.

J.R.'s eyebrows arched. "You know Morse Code?"

"I worked my way through college in a Western Union off—" she stopped banging as the muffled air-horn suddenly sounded again. _One_ short blast, this time. "Does that mean 'We heard you?' or 'Everybody get back to work?'"

John was forced to smile, a sad, half-hearted smile. "Everybody back to work. But don't worry. They'll hear us _next_ time."

E.J. set their noisemaker down and shoved her hand back into the fireman's right coat pocket. She removed the air-splint she'd seen him shove in there, and inflated it just a tad. "Lift your head up for me," she requested.

J.R. did as directed.

E.J. placed the partially inflated air-splint beneath his raised head, cushioning it from the slab of cold, hard, terrazzo flooring.

"You made me a pillow," Gage realized, with a grin. "How considerate of you." That said, he pulled his pillow-provider from her makeshift seat and took her back into the protective custody of his arms. "We need to conserve heat," he explained, once he'd gotten the woman re-situated in his lap—er, his half-a-lap.

A long, comfortable silence ensued, which was only disturbed by the loud rumbling of the young fireman's empty stomach.

"Sorry about that," J.R. apologized. "We got toned out before we could finish eating."

"Tuna salad?"

"Sorry 'bout that," J.R. re-apologized. "Didn't have time to brush my teeth."

"Or time to check on your friends and families, either, I'll bet."

"The Department has a system in place, in the event of natural disasters. Off-duty firefighters are called upon to perform welfare checks on the families of on-duty firefighters. It works pretty well. Our loved ones are looked after, and our attention remains focused on the job."

"Are you married?"

Another, slight, sad smile appeared. "Only to my work." The look on the young fireman's face suddenly grew even sadder. "E.J….Why didn't you answer us?"

"Because I knew that signal meant that the building was about to come down…because I knew that the two of you would be able to make it out a lot faster without me…because elevators don't 'do' sideways…because I couldn't leave without Mister Munson," the old woman choked back a sob, "and because I couldn't ask you boys…to risk your lives…just to try to save…some _stupid cat_!"

E.J. was crying openly now and J.R. regretted ever having posed his prying question. "Yeah…well…That just goes to show," he began, his own voice cracking with emotion, "that you don't know Chester B. and me. Cuz', if you did, you'd know that **we** would NEVER risk our lives just to try an' save some _stupid cat_." His sad smile returned and he tightened his tender hold on her. "But, to save somebody's furry _best friend…_ and _beloved companion_? Well, the two of us will do—and have done—just about **anything**."

The woman returned his smile, but the tears continued their steady stream down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, J.R.. Look at you. You're trapped…and hurt. I'm soooo sorry."

"Hey…I'm a firefighter, E.J. Firefighters flirt with disaster on a daily basis. Sometimes, disaster flirts back. This is just one a' those times. And, I'm the one who's sorry. I was s'posed to get you ' **down and out** '. Remember?"

"You got me down. I'd be dead right now, if you hadn't. And you would have gotten me **out** , too, if that damn aftershock hadn't a' hit when it did. I have every confidence that we _will_ get **out** of here. We're just taking the 'scenic route', is all."

J.R. just had to chuckle at that. "Now that you mention it…The chandelier is kind a' pretty to look at, isn't it…"

And it was E.J.'s turn to laugh. Her laughter was short-lived however, as the chandelier's dangling crystal prisms suddenly began to dance and sway and ' _clink_ ' noisily together. The ' _clink_ 'ing was quickly drowned out by an all too familiar rumble. She clutched the front of the fireman's coat with both fists, buried her tear-streaked face back into his chest, and resumed her silent—but fervent—prayers.

As the second aftershock came roaring—and rolling—in, Gage re-donned his helmet and then used his body to shelter E.J. from harm.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

"An Equitable Trade"

**Chapter Five**

The third temblor, while not as violent as the first two, shook the slabs of concrete and granite enough to cause them to shift.

As they shifted position, the wedge/chair settled lower into the V-shaped void, widening the slot at the bottom and freeing the fireman's right hip.

John was just about to pull his no longer trapped leg up out of the hole, when the slab his left foot was planted on slipped. A white-hot shaft of pain tore through his right thigh. He threw his helmeted head back and screamed, "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The tremor—and the screaming—gradually subsided.

E.J. was alarmed.

The young fireman had just screamed until he'd run out of air. And now, his chest wasn't moving, again.

She hoped it was because he was holding his breath. She was tempted to hold hers, too, as the air was—once again—filled with that damn disgusting dust. She removed herself from the fireman's lap and retook her wedge/seat.

Her young companion was in a world a' hurt! To make matters worse, a gasped inhalation was rewarded with a lungful of pulverized plaster dust. The irritant sent J.R. into a coughing jag. With the pressure removed from his hip, his formerly _asleep_ right leg was rapidly 'reawakening'. So, the initial white-hot shaft of pain was being closely followed by a constant searing pain. He really, really, REALLY needed to take his weight **off** of his right leg! "E.J.?!" he somehow managed to get out, between coughs—and tightly clenched teeth. "Can you grab that rope up there?!"

The old lady latched onto the requested rope and pulled it down for him.

J.R.'s trembling left hand grabbed the lowered rope, but even with the both of them pulling down, it wouldn't stretch enough for him to get his lifebelt re-attached to it. In fact, the only result of their combined effort was more screaming. It seemed _pulling up_ on his right leg hurt every bit as bad as _pushing down_ on it did. John loosened the straps on his lifebelt with his trembling right hand, and tried again. This time, he was able to get the belt's clamp clipped to the rope. After some excruciatingly painful 'trial and error', the fireman was finally able to get his lifebelt buckled into a non-scream-producing position. "So," he gasped, once he'd regained his breath and, at least, _some_ semblance of his composure, "how'd you break your ankle?"

E.J. completely ignored the injured young man's nonchalant inquiry. It was time to 'act', not 'talk'. 'Circulation…Circulation…Circulation.' She took the bandage scissors she'd just stolen—er, borrowed from the paramedic's assessment kit—and began cutting the bottom of her cotton housecoat up into strips of bandages.

"I see you're—"

"—Yes!"

"I don't suppose—"

"—No!"

J.R. exhaled a resigned sigh.

By the time E.J. finished cutting, her cotton housecoat was little more than a cotton blouse. She threw the long cloth strips over her left shoulder and started taking her leave.

J.R. locked his right hand and onto her left wrist and gave it an encouraging squeeze. " _Please_...be careful down there."

She placed her steady right hand over the paramedic's trembling appendage and gave it a few comforting pats. "Don't worry. I will."

J.R. exhaled another sigh, of utter frustration, and, reluctantly, released his grip.

"I'm leaving you in charge of the lighting," E.J. lightly announced, and carefully began lowering herself down through the opening at the bottom of their V-shaped void.

J.R. dutifully removed his flashlight's wrist strap from the chandelier and beamed its soft yellow glow directly below.

* * *

E.J.'s good right foot hit the basement floor. She balanced on one leg for a few moments and then slowly—and carefully—dropped to her knees. Her hazel eyes widened in horror and she stifled a colorful expletive, or two, as she got an up close look at the young fireman's badly injured leg.

The tip of that steel reinforcing rod was now sticking out the right side of J.R.'s leg. This latest shaking and resettling had shoved the rusty half-inch diameter rebar clean through his lower thigh. Worse yet, the wound seemed to be bleeding even more profusely.

E.J. sent a silent prayer, for strength, heavenward and immediately set about stemming the steady flow of blood. "The floor is wet," she calmly relayed, noting that her sweatpants felt damp at the knees. "But there doesn't seem to be any raw sewage or standing water anywhere."

"That's a good sign," her suspended patient replied, sounding equally calm. "They must be trying to reach us through the basement. They'd have the Sanitation Department pump it out, first."

The woman was on her fourth layer of bandages and still the dark stain continued to appear. "We seem to be just outside of the laundry room. Too bad I can't get to it. Mister Greenbough does his wash on Tuesdays and he has the most luxuriant 100 percent Egyptian cotton, 800 thread-count sheets. They'd make incredible bandages!"

* * *

J.R.'s right eyebrow arched.

* * *

"I know what you're thinking," E.J. continued. "You're thinking: 'How does the old bat know so much about Mister Greenbough's sheets."

The young fireman was forced to laugh.

"Well, we **both** do our wash on Tuesdays and I help E.G. fold all his bedding. This isn't too tight, is it, dear?"

"It's not tight, at all."

That was probably why the crimson stain continued to appear. She wasn't tying the bandage strips tight enough. She snugged up the sixth and seventh layers of cotton cloth and was relieved to see _they_ remained relatively stain free.

"So, how **did** you break your ankle?" J.R. re-wondered.

"Every Saturday night, we turn…used to turn the lobby into a ballroom. E.G. and I were dancing. Marv Dunlop cut in and stepped on my left foot with one of his _two_ left feet and my ankle snapped like a dry twig. But, it's a clean break and my orthopedist claims I'll be back on the dance floor in about four more weeks." E.J. used the last strip of cloth to wipe the drying crimson stains from her hands. "How are you doing up there, dear?"

"I was doing a whole lot better…when my leg was _asleep_."

E.J. could easily believe that! The old woman knelt there, silently berating herself for having allowed J.R. to delay her bandaging efforts. Blood had pooled on the tiled floor, beneath his dangling right leg. Thankfully, her young rescuer was right. The pool wasn't the bright red color of **arterial** blood. She tossed the crimson-stained cloth aside and started struggling back onto her one good, slippered foot.

* * *

"I've managed to get the bleeding under control," she relievedly reported as her grey-haired head popped back up through the opening.

J.R. slipped his light's wrist strap back over the chandelier's shiny brass arm and extended a helping hand.

E.J. declined the young fireman's gracious offer, realizing the pain, even the slightest movement on his part, would produce. She opted, instead, for hobbling up a sort of 'debris stairway'. It took some doing, but the old woman finally found herself perched back upon her wedge/chair. "You're being awfully quiet."

"I've been trying to think of something I **wouldn't** do for a shot of Demerol, right now. So far, I haven't been able to come up with anything…short of _murder._ "

"Well… _That's_ a relief." E.J. smiled, as her deadpan reply prompted the pain-racked paramedic to laugh, yet again.

"Thanks for saving my life, E.J."

"Thanks for saving _my_ life, J.R."

Two short, muffled blasts of an air-horn suddenly sounded.

J.R. slipped his helmet off and handed it to his savvy companion.

E.J. accepted their noisemaker and began banging out a rather loud, encoded message.

* * *

Over at L.A. County's Fire Station 51…

Headquarters had assured the grief-stricken crew that their families were all safe and secure.

That knowledge did little, or nothing, to lighten the somber mood that seemed to permeate the entire station.

* * *

Hank and his Engineer were currently seated in his office. The pair had just finished giving their signed statements to the authorities.

That meant that the wheels were now in motion to see to it that the party responsible for the building collapse was brought to justice.

Unfortunately, that knowledge also did little, or nothing, to lighten either man's somber mood.

Recalling his boss' ' _At. This. Time_.' comment to dispatch, Stoker felt compelled to inquire, "Cap, do you _really_ believe John could have survived the collapse?"

"Depends," the Captain quickly came back. "You asking my _head_? Or my _heart_?"

"You're one _hell_ of a Captain," Mike quietly confessed. "Bordering on _brilliant_ ," he added, with a wry, shy smile. "But the times I've been proudest to be under your command, are the times when you've led with your _heart_ , and not just your head."

Hank flashed his friend back a grateful grin. "Thanks, Mike. That means a lot…coming from _you_."

"So. What are you going to do?"

"This…situation…reminded me of something I read a while back…in a fortune cookie, of all the damned places. It said, in part, that 'As long as there is **hope** , there is _life_ '. So, I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to hold onto that **hope** and save the damn _grief_ for another damn day."

"So…what's stopping you?"

His boss' face suddenly filled with an unbearable sadness. "What if I'm _wrong_?"

"I read something a while back, too. If I recall correctly, it was along the lines of: 'The loss is forever. Grief over that loss is not.'"

The Captain flashed his Engineer back another smile, this time, a sad one. "You're gonna make one **hell** of a Captain, yourself, someday."

"So you keep sayin'. Yah know, if I was a less secure person, I might take it that you were trying to get rid of me."

"Now, why would I wanna get rid of the best damn engineer in the entire department?"

The two friends exchanged grins.

Stanley started getting stiffly to his feet. "What da yah say we cut all the mutual admiration crap and go see what the rest of the guys are up to," he ordered more than asked.

"Great idea, Cap," Stoker replied, and then quickly added, "I know. I know. ' _ **All**_ _of your ideas are_ _great_ _—and that is why_ _ **you**_ _are the_ _Captain_ _'._ "

"Damn straight." At least, Hank _hoped_ **all** of his ideas would turn out to be  great.

* * *

Back at 1126 East Berkley Avenue…

The firefighter listening for signs of life suddenly froze all motion.

Through all the loud ' _crunch_ 'ing and ' _crack_ 'ling in his headphones, there filtered the faint, but deliberate ' _bang_ 'ing sound of something other than resettling building debris.

It took the wide-eyed listener a few more seconds to finally realize what he was hearing.

He stashed the probe under his armpit and pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. It took several more listens to get the encoded message recorded, but, once it was down on paper, the fireman raised his hand-held radio to his smiling lips and keyed its mic'. "Battalion 14 from HT36…"

" **McConike here…Go ahead, 36…** "

"Chief, they're alive!"

" **Say again…** "

"Gage and the victim are alive!...Sir."

" **You're positive it's not just debris settling from that last aftershock?** "

"Not unless settling debris knows Morse Code…Sir," he wisely replied and proceeded to read the Battalion Chief the ' _bang_ 'ed out message, "Two alive STOP Entombed in V-shaped void STOP Please hurry STOP."

* * *

McConike lowered his HT and beamed a big grin in his engineer's direction. "Brinkman, sound 'message received'!"

Brinkman returned his boss' grin, "With pleasure, Chief!" That said, the engineer spun on his heels and trotted off in the direction of his truck.

* * *

Gage heard his firemen friends honking at passing motorists again and surpassed both of their grins. He reached out and stopped E.J., right in mid-bang. "Three short blasts mean 'Message received.'"

E.J. lowered her aching arms. "Thank God! I sure hope they hurry."

"Firemen work a little faster and are more 'inspired', when it's a **rescue** …and not just a _retrieval_."

E.J. gave her young rescuer's still trembling hand a few more comforting pats and began praying, fervently, that it would turn out to be a rescue operation. **Two** _rescues_ , and no 'retrievals'.

* * *

Back over in the rec' room of Station 51…

Hank had just finished proposing his 'As long as there is hope, there is life' plan of action, when the phone rang.

Being in closest proximity to the annoying instrument, he turned around and answered it. "Station 51. Captain Stanley speaking…" His bushy brows shot up into the middle of his forehead. "Well, I'll be damned!" The Captain covered the phone's mouthpiece and aimed his amazed gaze in his engineer's direction. "It worked! Headquarters just confirmed it. They're both alive!"

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

"An Equitable Trade"

**Chapter Six**

Hank thanked headquarters for calling and hung up.

The Captain's shared phone conversation had stunned John Gage's shiftmates into silence.

"It's true," Stanley assured his disbelieving crew. "The guy working the LDP picked up a Morse Code message: Two alive. Entombed in V-shaped void. Please hurry."

Lopez and Kelly grinned from ear-to-ear and promptly flew into a back-slapping frenzy.

Hank noted that the dour expression on DeSoto's face failed to depart. "What's wrong, Roy?"

Before their Captain had come into the rec' room, Roy, Marco and Chet had been riveted to their color TV's 24-inch screen.

KXLA was showing live coverage of the collapse site, and the LACFD's rescue operation.

Roy's gaze slowly shifted back to their TV's screen and the 'talking head'.

Chief Dalbert's voice droned on and on, "All the utilities have been secured. The Sanitation Department is continuing to pump out the basement. Progress is painstakingly slow. The crews are only averaging about 2-feet per hour, as they have to cut through concrete walls, floors, steel pipes, wires and an assortment of reinforcing rods. The crews are working with several thousand tons of debris over their heads. Right now, we're waiting for more jacks to be delivered. The jacks are needed to shore up the access route…"

The message hadn't come from his partner. Hell, the only Morse Code Johnny knew was S-O-S.

Which meant it had to have come from the woman who was 'entombed' with him…and she had requested that they 'Please hurry.'

Roy's solemn gaze returned to his now concerned Captain. "I could imagine that Johnny had somehow managed to _survive_ the structural collapse. But I'm not naïve enough to think he could make it through something _that_ catastrophic and remain **un** scathed. Chief Dalbert just said it could take up to fifteen to twenty hours, for us to reach them. Even a minor injury can become life-threatening, if it's left untreated _that_ long…" the paramedic allowed his worry-filled voice to trail off.

Stanley exchanged a solemn glance with the rest of his guys. "As long as there is **hope** , there is _life_ ," he repeated. The Captain crossed over to his senior paramedic and gave his sagging left shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "The other part reads: As long as there is **life** , there is _hope_."

Roy gave his boss a grateful nod, but his expression remained grim.

There were times when the fireman wished he didn't know so damned much about medicine.

* * *

Roy was right. His partner had, most definitely, _not_ survived the collapse, or the second aftershock, **un** scathed.

In fact, the scope of the 'scathed' paramedic's pain was breathtaking—literally.

'Inhale through your nose…' the hurting fireman mentally coached himself, between bouts of teeth-gritting and gasping. 'Ahhh-ahhhh-ahhhh…Shit, shit shit…Just shoot me now…Where was I?...Oh…yeah…Ahhhhhhhhh…Damn, damn, damn…' Gage grimaced and gave up. Regulating one's breathing required total concentration and his brain's pain receptors were being bombarded with so many messages, his thoughts refused to stay focused. He felt weak, faint, dizzy, confused, and agitated. He was experiencing tingling in both arms and numbness around his mouth. No doubt about it, he was hyperventilating. "E.J…could you please…pass me…my helmet?"

E.J. handed the paramedic his helmet and he promptly began breathing into it. "Hurts _bad_ , huh…"

"It…doesn't hurt… _good_ …Sorry…I was being…a smartass…Sorry…I was being…disrespectful…I'm afraid…I'm not managing…my pain…very well." He pulled the helmet away from his face for a moment. "I don't wanna alarm you…but 'murder' is lookin'…like it may end up…on the Demerol 'trading table'…after all,' the hurting _bad_ fireman breathlessly confessed, his grimace combining with a crooked grin.

"J.R., I'd like to try something with you. If you're willing…"

The young fireman's handsome face remained frozen in a grimace. "At this point…I am willing to try… _anything_ …E.J."

"Years ago, I traveled to Bolivia. I was on a bus filled with people, heading up into the Andes, just north of La Paz. It had been raining heavily for several days. The mountain road we were on suddenly gave way and the bus plunged down an embankment. Dozens were killed, many more were seriously injured. I suffered a compound fracture of my right wrist. As luck would have it, a medico kallawaya came along."

"A medico…kalla _what_?" the paramedic queried, his voice muffled by his helmet.

"Kallawaya—a traditional, naturopathic Bolivian healer. He did what he could to treat our injuries. Fortunately, Arturo spoke Spanish. His prescription for coping with the pain until outside help arrived, was to bombard our brains with things we felt very passionately about: sights, sounds, memories. According to Arturo, and his ancient Incan ancestors, our brains are incapable of focusing on two equally strong feelings at the same time. So, it's possible for the passion we feel to override the pain we feel…or something along those lines. Well, my wrist was really _killing_ me, so I gave it a go. And, damned if it didn't work! Perhaps, if we can keep you distracted with good, stimulating conversation about the things you feel strongly about, your passion will override **your** pain, as well…"

Re-breathing his own air seemed to have corrected his blood's low carbon dioxide level, so J.R. slowly lowered his helmet. He **did** say he was willing to try _anything_. "Okay. Why not. I am passionate about the Great Outdoors.

In fact, I was s'posed to be heading up into the San Gabriels right after my shift.

About six months back, some buddies of mine pooled their resources and bought 2,000 acres of primo, pristine, virgin timberland from a logging conglomerate.

The property is completely surrounded by State and National Forests.

They sort a' nominated _me_ to be their property's caretaker. In return, I get to stay there whenever they're off on location. It's my new favorite place in the world.

They put up a brand new log cabin, right on the edge of the timberline. It is _incredible_! Built-in bunks, a beautiful stone fireplace and a cozy loft. Wall to wall windows and a wrap-around deck. Everywhere you look, there's a _breathtaking_ view.

There are three— **three** trout streams on the place.

Tons of wildlife. Fresh air… **zero** smog. I can do a little upkeep and de-stress at the same time. What's not to love?

I've been hiking up there, on and off, for the past few months, now, and I still haven't seen it all." The paramedic paused to beam a broad grin in his helpful companion's direction. "It seems to be working, E.J.."

"Great! Then, don't stop. You've described some of the sights. What about the sounds?"

The young fireman's grin remained planted on his pain-free face and he got a far-away look in his eyes. "The wind. The sound of the wind rustling through the pines around the cabin is _soul-soothing_."

"Soul-soothing?"

"Yeah. _Soul-soothing_...like the sound my horse makes when he's munching on his hay…or the sound my saddle makes when the leather creaks…or the sound water makes as it's trickling over stones in a trout stream. _Soul-soothing_." The wistful thinker suddenly snapped out of his soothing reveries. "How did you ever end up in _Bolivia_?"

" **You** 're supposed to be doing the talking, here. Not me. I'm not the one with a steel rod rammed through my right thi—" E.J. cut her comment short and cursed beneath her breath. 'Wonderful! You just reminded him of what you're trying to get him to forget!"

J.R. was forced to grin again. "I can be a 'passionate' listener."

E.J. surrendered. "I taught High School Art for 47 years. Although, art isn't exactly something that can be 'taught'. I spent my summers traveling the world. One can't get very far on a teacher's salary, so I also illustrate romance novels."

"Sorry about all of your paintings," J.R. interjected. "I saw them, and your artist supplies in the closet, when I went to get the sheet."

"Those were just prints. Prints can be replaced. The originals currently 'deck the halls' of Passion Press, Inc., in downtown L.A." The ex-teacher/artist eyed the passionate listener carefully.

Her rescuer was ruggedly handsome, like the young men on the covers of the romance novels she was commissioned to illustrate. "You strike me as having been a good student."

"Getting good grades was not an option when I was growing up. It was mandatory. My father read—somewhere—that 'Knowledge Is Power'. And he intended to see to it that his kids were as _empowered_ as they could possibly be."

"You have siblings?"

"One. A sister. Two years older than me. She loves to travel the world, too. Only, it doesn't cost her a dime. In fact, she gets paid to do it."

"What airline is she with?"

"Julie's been with Trans World for over 15 years. She's based in Rome. But, once or twice a year, she'll swap flights with somebody heading for the States and fly into LAX. She usually crashes at my place. Poor choice of words."

"Are your parents still living?"

"My Mom died of breast cancer, when I was twelve. I lost my Father five years later, in a construction accident. He was working on a high-rise in Riverside when a crane collapsed, killing him—and four other guys."

"I'm sorry to hear that," E.J.'s voice cracked with emotion and she had to regain her composure before continuing with her questioning. They'd covered sights and sounds. It was time to tackle memories. "What about memorable experiences?"

"Where do I begin," John muttered beneath his breath. He decided to start with the most recent and work his way back. "Okay. It's three in the morning. A call comes in: 'Woman down. Unknown cause. We get to the scene and there's this lady sitting on the curb, outside a' this bar, sobbing hysterically. We check her out and quickly discover that she is also completely 'blotto'. We finally get her calmed down enough to speak and ask, 'What seems to be the problem?' She looks up at us and says, 'I'm peeing pennies!'

E.J. burst out laughing.

J.R. grinned. "I know. Right? We're supposed to maintain a professional demeanor at all times. But, how can _anybody_ be expected to hear a comment like **that** and NOT 'crack up'?"

"So," E.J. inquired, between a few lingering giggles, "did you?"

"We took one look at each other and went into a couple of coughing jags. While we're trying to wrap our heads around _that_ , she proceeds to pull her pants down and show us that her panties are, indeed, full of pennies."

E.J. laughed harder than ever.

"And, Roy—my paramedic partner—Roy was no help at all. Kept making all these snide comments under his breath, about the goose that laid the golden egg, and about whether she was expecting us to deposit her at Rampart? Or take her to the bank, to make a deposit. Is she crying because she's not peeing quarters? I elbowed him til his ribs were black and blue, but I could NOT get him to stop. Roy's sense of humor can get pretty demented on a nothing call at three in the morning."

"Whatever became of your patient?"

"Well, we transported her to the 'hospital' and they finally got her sobered up. That's when she remembered she had broken into some parking meters, earlier in the evening. She said she was afraid the police would catch her with her purse full of pennies. So she stashed them where the sun don't shine. To this day, neither of us can look at a penny without being reminded of the lady who turned her panties into an impromptu piggy ba—Ow! OW! **OW!** " the storyteller screamed in agony and started reaching for his injured right thigh.

"What's wrong?"

"Muscle spasm!" J.R. gasped, and re-locked his jaws.

"Quick! Pinch the area between the base of your nose and your upper lip! Harder!" E.J. ordered. The woman exhaled a frustrated gasp and brushed the incapacitated paramedic's hand away. She then latched onto the designated area and squeezed, really hard. "There is a nerve bundle—between your nose and upper lip. The acupressure point for leg pain is located there."

J.R. yelped in agony. "Acupressure point?" he inquired, his eyes watering from the pain of her pinch.

"Southern Mongolia. Gobi Desert. The Dzungarian Basin. I had foolishly allowed myself to become dehydrated. The calf muscles of my left leg were locked in a charley-horse. Altanjin offered to put me out of my misery. He was really into 'acupuncture', at the time."

"At the time?...Wha—? You speak Chinese?"

"The language of 'love' is universal, my dear boy."

"Something tells me you could write and illustrate your own series of 'romance novels', E.J.," J.R. determined, his voice sounding somewhat nasally.

E.J. completely ignored his comment. "For the record, Mongolians speak _Cyrillic_. Altanjin was a Tibetan Buddhist who spoke both Turkish and English."

At long last, J.R. could feel his locked up quadriceps relaxing.

E.J. released her hold on the paramedic's upper lip area. "Now, where were we?"

J.R.'s still-tearing eyes gazed disbelievingly back at his tormentor. "Uhhh…memories. If mine serves me correctly..."

**TBC**


End file.
